When I was nine, the city built an ice rink and I wanted to learn to skate. My father bought us some cheap skates and I walked up there every day after school so I could fall on my ass.
I clung to the railing on the wall and pulled myself along, inevitably pulling harder than my feet could skate and down I’d go. Granted, sometimes I fell on my knees, saving my ass a blow. I don’t know why, but it didn’t bother me. I kept going around the rink, and coming back day after day.
A Special Day at the Rink with Dad
One day, my father took a day off of work, and pulled me out of school, to take me skating during the day when there would hardly be anyone else on the ice.
He was a natural athlete but had never skated and I think he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Unlike me, he quickly found his balance and propelled himself across the ice. Nothing to it.
He pulled the Rink Aide aside and asked how to stop. The Rink Aide showed him the snowplow, which is executed by turning both blades perpendicular to the direction you’re going and leaning back. When done correctly, the blades dig into the ice and blast snow into the air, stopping you cold. It’s cool.
Son of a bitch if my dad didn’t get the hang of it. I’m still pulling myself along the side rail and he’s out there skating fast and blasting snow into the air. Until…
Until his last stop attempt went awry and his skates went out from under him. All that forward inertia was suddenly thrown into rotational inertia. I used to be able to do the math on this, but basically his 175 pound body was going ten mph in one direction and flipped that on a dime into a spin move, sending ass over tea kettle, as the saying goes.
Luckily, his skull broke his fall.
From across the rink I watched as he landed, splitting open his forehead and splattering blood in a scene straight out of a Sam Peckinpah film.
Spill on Aisle Nine
The Rink Aide helped him sit up, someone got a first aid kit, and eventually an ambulance showed up to take him to a hospital while I walked home.
He probably had a concussion but, back then, concussions were treated like scraped knees, and he was home for supper with stitches and a head wrap.
I know it was a serious accident that could have ended much, much worse. There are too many stories of everyday situations turning into the unthinkable accidents that change lives, and that’s probably why the image of him landing head first, and being covered in his own blood, has stayed with me so vividly for fifty years.
But once it was obvious he was okay, I had a funny story I could tell my brothers. Tragedy plus time equals comedy, as the saying goes.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I’m using the design of my next novel to avoid fixing the recently completed novel. In fact, I have realized how to do it. I just want to avoid it for a while longer.
Fixing novels is hard work. Not quite as difficult as writing the first draft, but close.
I’m sure there are writers who figure this stuff out much more easily, but maybe they sometimes flip the story ass over tea kettle and spill blood. I’ll keep pulling myself along from the side of the rink, making progress at my own pace.
Maybe You’d Like
This week I’m joining with a group of mystery and thriller writers for a promotion. Check it out!
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/iVFg8WA
Recommended Reading
If you need a short novel, try Western Lane by Chetna Maroo. It’s a mix of coming-of-age with performance genre as a twelve-year old girl figures out how to play and win at squash. It really pulled me in.
Next Picayune
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. I’ll be back in a couple weeks with another story and more book news.
All the best,
Mickey